


Lover to Lover

by sentimental_animals



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M, Multi, Prostitution, Self-Indulgent, Sexual Content, Trauma Recovery, and slightly trashy, bordello au, brothel, don't look at me, past trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 17:15:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4795730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sentimental_animals/pseuds/sentimental_animals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Josie runs the best little whorehouse in Night Vale</p><p>(well, technically the only one, but she never had a head for those technical details).</p><p>The new fish adapts to his home, the old professional looks askance at affection, the darling comes to understand what he has been spared from, and the diva keeps his chin up.</p><p>[background details and set dressing for an open AU, in a pleasant narrative form.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Black to Red

**Author's Note:**

> This story references past sexual trauma, and therefore includes implied past non-con. Also, this is firmly Fandom Kevin, and y'all can fight me on that.
> 
> All my love and thanks to Night Vale Trash Heap skype chat, especially the delightful [Kev](http://kevin-the-chicken.tumblr.com) who planned this horrible thing with me.

“You alright?” 

He opened his eyes, blinked at her, and smiled his tired little smile. “Yep!” he said. And then, weaker, “just fine.”

Josie studied him in the passing lights outside the window. It was definitely suspicious, the whole thing. She’d heard about this man before--no one knew his real name, and she refused to say the ridiculous thing he called himself--but had never dealt with him directly. And her instincts told her to be wary of anyone who would only make a trade in the middle of the night. What didn’t he want her to see?

She’d considered backing out, honestly, until she saw the man, with that great big smile and his eyes hidden under the brim of his hat, barely haggling price with her. Before she even saw the young man in question she knew she wasn’t going home alone, after seeing that smile. That smile said she was the last stop before the glue factory.

And here he was, next to her in the coach, barely noticing the uneven road jostling them around. Average height, very slim, barely keeping himself up, but smiling even with his eyes closed.

It was not a happy smile.

“That’s his debt settled,” the big man had said, when she handed him the money, “and it’s between you two how you work that out. He was worth quite a bit before, but now he’s all sickly. Almost useless. Out in the sticks, though, they might not be so picky. You might turn a nickel or two on him.”

 

“Wait, no--Earl--stop, watch, let me.”

Cecil took his long cigarette holder back and set it between his lips. He sucked the smoke in, sat back and exhaled, working his lips around the stream. Three rings floated unbroken to the ceiling.

He smiled proudly around the room. Carlos grinned and clapped, and Cecil felt a bit of heat in his cheeks. Carlos’ approval was always special to him. 

“Shh,” Earl said, grabbing Carlos’ hands, “keep it down, will you? Josie’s back from the city, and the new fish apparently needs all the rest he can get.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Cecil said, leaning back against the cushions and spreading his arms across the back of the sofa. “I got a look at him, he looks like he could sleep through the unraveling of all things.” 

“Well I’m glad her humanitarian mission was successful,” Carlos said. He had a way of talking that was always endearing to Cecil, if sometimes confusing. “Think we’ll meet him tomorrow?”

“Not in the parlor.” Cecil leaned forward to tap ash into the red glass dish on the table. “Josie’s got to feed him up some first. He’s looking a little rough.”

Earl crossed his ankle over his knee and leaned back against the plush chair. “Yeah?” His voice was a little too casual.

Cecil studied his curiously intense look through the swirling smoke. He could soothe half the worry, at least. “At least as old as me,” he said casually, like it wasn’t a remark with a purpose, “but probably not as well-kept as we songbirds.” He looked away coolly and added, “He’s from the Bluffs, worked for someone calls himself the Smiling God?”

Earl nodded and picked at his lip, then looked around the room, his shoulders tight. Carlos was a baby, so he wouldn’t know what that meant, but Earl had been around, Earl had history, Earl had seen the streets before he settled here. “Hope she didn’t put him in a new fish room, Cecil. The unraveling of all things is one thing, but you at your work could raise the dead.”

Cecil kicked playfully at Earl with his bare foot. “Shut it.”

Josie’s heavy footsteps on the stairs broke the casual atmosphere; they studied her face discreetly, looking for evidence of her mood, and, by extension, the newcomer’s condition. 

“Cecil Palmer, don’t you get ash on my good pillows,” she said, in her gruff but kind way. “You three should be getting ready for work, the mine shifts will be changing soon and the bank closed early.” She strutted behind the bar and poked around among the glasses and bottles. Everything would be in order, of course--Erika was fastidious, always had been--but she still checked every evening. “Earl,” she added, “Mr. Vanston is in town on business, I hear.”

“Right.” Earl stood in one fluid motion, stretched, and moved towards the stairs. Earl was A Favorite, and Marcus Vanston was wealthy enough for a special level of preening. Cecil knew Josie wouldn’t even call him down until Vanston showed up, twisting one of the rings on his long fingers, with enough money in his pocket to keep Earl’s company through the night, and possibly until the next morning, and usually a gift as well.

Cecil stubbed his cigarette out and collapsed the holder. He could use a wash and brush up too, but he was nosy; and anyway he’d been here for years, was almost as much of a boss as Josie was. He’d been here when Leonard Burton owned the place and just sort of came with the deed when Josie bought him out. 

“So,” he said, leaning on the bar, “you’re working deals with the Smiling God now?”

She huffed. “That son-of-a-bitch. He works them at a debt, you know that? Rents things to them. Poor kid hadn’t been ahead since he laid eyes on that fool. Had nothing to bring with him, looks half starved and sickly, been hurt too. And he can’t figure out why the boy isn’t able to work.” She looked up at him and gestured with the rag she was running over the smooth and already-clean wooden bar. “You boys look after him, when he’s back on his feet. I don’t think he knows how to act.”

Cecil nodded, tapped his knuckles twice against the bar. “Yes ma’am. I’ve got to get changed. If Vanston’s in town, he’ll probably have some well-paid assistant looking for a good time.”

He hummed while he washed his face, smoothed his hair, changed his clothes. He toyed with the tiny bottle of scent on the vanity before dabbing a bit behind the ears. Bergamot. A fancy gift he used sparingly from a travelling academic, talked to him every night for a week about some fantastic invention he was working on. 

He could already hear movement and voices downstairs. He stood and took one last look out the window at the stars before turning to the door with his most charming, enigmatic smile. 

The Night Vale House was open for business.

 

Carlos always seemed to end up with the sweet ones. A little young, a little shy, a little romantic. This was the third time the local barber had showed up, stammering his way through small talk in the parlor and nervously shoving a box into Carlos’ hands. 

“Telly!” he said, smiling in genuine delight. “How thoughtful!” Caramels--six of them!--covered in chocolate. That would have been expensive. They’d be a nice treat to share in the morning.

Then came the quiet negotiations of business. Carlos wasn’t very good at the business end of it, and his responses were very scripted (Cecil had taught him how to talk up his requirements without sounding like he was haggling, how to ask high so he and the client would fall into his expected price range, how to decline things he didn’t want to do without losing the deal altogether). He showed Telly upstairs to his room, past the door behind which Cecil was already hard at work.

“Sorry about the noise,” Carlos said sweetly, shutting the door behind him and indicating a chair. “Cecil is, uh. Just like that.”

“I remember,” Telly said, relaxing slightly now that they were away from the noise and crowds of the parlor. “We’ve got--we’ve got a couple of hours, don’t we?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Carlos sat on the bed, blushing under the heat of his look. That was part of his allure, too, the natural modesty that a year of working here couldn’t shake, that he would probably never lose.

Sex, he knew, was a natural biological drive. He knew there was no shame in desire, in satisfaction, in pleasure, and he felt no shame in providing those things for a small fee. It was a market that existed, and the less shame he felt the safer his interactions would be. And yet the lusty, desirous eyes of someone who thought his time, his company, his body, was worth paying a premium for always made him blush and look away. 

It didn’t hurt that he was lean and tan with unruly, tousled curls and straight teeth and a hint of an accent, still. That contributed to the value of his time.

“So--uh--will you--”

Carlos smiled, laughed a little, made eye contact for a second before flicking his glance away. “Okay.” He stood and stripped slowly, folding his clothes neatly and setting them on the trunk at the foot of his bed. 

Telly fidgeted in his chair, warming up still, even though they’d done this twice before and he had nothing to be ashamed of, as far as Carlos could see. 

“Good?” Carlos asked, sprawling across the bed in the most alluring position he could manage.

Telly nodded. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “you just lie there and be beautiful.”

 

Marcus Vanston stood in the parlor like he owned the place. To be fair, Earl thought, he probably could own the place, or nearly any place he wanted, so he more or less stood in every room like that. Earl strutted across the room, took the soft and beringed hand offered to him. He popped up on his toes to kiss his cheek. 

Marcus wasn’t all that tall of course, he only had a couple of inches on Earl, but he liked to _feel_ that tall. 

“Do you want to sit down here for a little while or shall we go straight up?”

“Up,” Marcus said, a proprietary hand landing in the small of Earl’s back. He noticed Earl’s eyes flit briefly to his assistant, hovering behind him.

“Jake,” Marcus said without turning, “go have yourself a good time.”

Having spread his good fortune around a little (and noticing how Cecil perked up, leaned forward, smiled his winning smile at Jake and his full pockets, hoping to close his second deal of the night), he lead Marcus up to his room, which was all set up and ready for them: the very soft sheets Marcus preferred, the selection of bindings and toys laid out neatly. 

Marcus reached up and stroked his thin fingers over Earl's ornate lapel pin. It was a gift, one Earl made sure to have on whenever he knew Marcus was planning a visit. “You should reconsider my offer. It would be more...convenient. For both of us,” he said softly. 

Earl smiled, shook his head. “I’m quite comfortable in this gilded cage, thank you.”

“But I could give you a bigger cage,” Marcus said, and the wicked little smile was back, the softness and longing gone from his eyes. He slid his fingers into Earl’s belt loops and pulled him roughly against his chest. “A whole cage all to yourself, gilt all over, and all you have to do is stay there and wait for me.”

“No, thank you.” Earl liked Marcus, liked him just fine, and appreciated his kindnesses. And he knew Marcus was plenty fond of him, and he wanted to keep it that way. Being his constant companion was a surefire way for that to change, to spoil it and rot them both.

If anyone would know that, it was Earl.

Marcus shrugged. “Can’t blame a man for trying.”

“I’m flattered. I really am.” Earl kissed his cheek again. “So, how do you want to play tonight, Mr. Vanston, sir?”

Marcus’ hands wrapped around him, squeezing his ass hard, then pushed him down on the neatly made bed. “Strip,” he commanded.

 

Kevin stretched luxuriously across the bed, half awake, and the cool softness of the cotton sheets was the nicest thing he could--

Sheets.

_You aren’t supposed to sleep in the nice beds._

He scrambled up and to his feet, staggering and tripping, tangled in the fabric. He collapsed heavily onto the floor, wincing as his tailbone hit the hard wood, dizzy from standing too fast. 

Someone knocked twice on the door. “Breakfast!”

That voice was unfamiliar. Kevin squinted around the room, blinking. It was strange, and it smelled wrong. It didn’t smell like home at all.

The events of the previous night made their way through the fog of exhaustion. 

_Oh that’s right, Kevin,_ he thought. _They got rid of you._

He wrapped his arms around his knees and made himself as small as possible. What kind of place would this be, taking castoffs too sick and weak and lazy and worthless to keep up with their debts?

And now he was compounding interest, from a shrewd old woman with pursed lips and greying hair. She didn’t seem to smile, not nearly as much as--

He let himself sob, just once, silently, face twisted up and lungs aching. Inside he shrieked, he wept, he begged, he pounded his fists. 

He cleared his face, breathed deeply, wiped his eyes. 

“Are you coming to eat or what?” 

That sounded like that woman. His new employer. He pulled himself to his feet and waited for a moment, leaning forward until the spinning stopped.

There was more laughter than he was anticipating when he got downstairs--with genuine joy, not indulging-a-client laugher. And there were only four people downstairs. Why weren’t they working?

Oh right. A meal, that was what they said.

A dark and pretty young man was sitting on the floor beside a low table, spooning honey into a chipped china bowl. Beside him, sprawled across the sofa, had to be the favorite--he was lean and beautiful and clearly comfortable where he was. On the other side of the table was a well-dressed redhead with a half smile and a generous spattering of freckles across a nose that had been broken at least once.

“It’s a power thing,” he was saying, suddenly serious. “Like, they wanna feel like they can snap someone in half, like you’re only safe because they don’t feel like being as horrible as they could be. It’s more common out in the city, people are weirder there.”

Should he just go in? Announce himself? He stood tensely in the doorway, waiting for instruction. 

“Go on,” said the woman, behind him, and he jumped. “I’ll bring you a bowl. Oats okay? Hope so, because that’s what we’ve got. Cecil, I told you to make more damned coffee.”

“I did!” the beautiful one half-sat. “You should have moved faster, we got it all.” He shifted over and whispered in Kevin’s direction, “Don’t worry, I saved you some.”

Kevin sat on the edge of the sofa and sipped the black coffee. It was stronger than he was used to, but that was good. That meant he’d only need one cup.

A steaming bowl was placed in front of him. “Here. Eat some oats,” the woman said.

The one with the curly dark hair eyed him down the table, then nudged the honey pot in his direction. “Have some.”

“No thank you,” Kevin said, smiling brightly. “This is fine.” He picked up the spoon and scooped a tiny bite, scraping half of it off the side of the bowl before bringing the spoon to his lips.

“What...what are you doing?” asked the lounger. 

“Eating oats.”

“Plain oats. Do you--Josie? Josie! Plain oats, do you hear this child?”

The woman--Josie, apparently--bustled back into the room, grumbling. She pulled the lid off the honeypot and drizzled a generous spoonful into Kevin’s bowl.

Oh no. Now he couldn’t eat it--couldn’t possibly--

It was a test. It had to be a test. He stared at the bowl and sipped his coffee again, willing his stomach to be still.

“There’s plenty of it,” the redhead said pleasantly, “but it’s all kind of plain stuff. The honey helps.”

“Josie is not the world’s best cook,” the lounger said in a stage whisper.

“Cecil Palmer, I swear on my life I will beat you senseless--!”

Kevin froze, waiting for the chaos. But to his surprise, Cecil laughed. “You’d have to catch me first, old woman!” Was he really antagonizing her? She looked like she could take him easily. But then again, he seemed like the favorite. Maybe he got away with things. 

She sat heavily in one of the plush chairs behind Kevin. “Don’t you mind these boys,” she said to him. “Eat your oats.”

The redhead swallowed and said, “I’m Earl, by the way. This cutie is Carlos, and the sassy one is Cecil.”

“Hello,” Kevin said with a pleasant smile, toying with his spoon. Was he supposed to decline all of it? Maybe it would be alright if he had just a little. Just a bite or two, around the honey, that would be okay.

“This is Kevin,” Josie said. “Now we’re all friends. Shut up and eat your goddamn oats.”


	2. Rules, Personal and Otherwise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *sexual content intensifies*  
> Also, there is some trauma response stuff in here that might be disturbing; I tried to handle it as respectfully as possible, but it may still be distressing to some.

Cecil almost felt bad for Kevin, in the new fish room. Especially since Josie said he was still too sick to work, and was probably just stuck in bed, hearing the noise. At least their shared wall wasn’t the one his bed was against. That was Carlos' misfortune, in the room on the other side.

“Oh.” He leaned forward, hands clutching the sheets on either side of the young man’s shoulders, rocking his hips. He groaned louder, and the client gasped and panted and thrust up harder to meet him. “Oh my god.”

Cecil had a reputation to uphold, after all. A reputation this client had specifically asked for, and had more than enough to pay for. He silently thanked Earl for reminding Marcus to free his assistant for the last few nights.

He pushed away from the bed, sitting back on his heels and moving faster. The bed creaked and the headboard hit the wall, and he hoped for a brief second that Carlos wasn’t trying to entertain someone at the moment. 

He moaned again, loud and uninhibited. The thrusts rising to meet him, to press inside of him, were becoming more erratic, and Jake was stuttering out guttural sounds of satisfaction and pleasure. 

He leaned forward again, hair spilling down against the pillow, watching the Jake’s face as he approached climax. “Yeah,” he whispered, and then, louder, “Yes, like that, oh god _fuck_ oh my god--” he was nearly howling now, following the client’s cues to know when it was time to scream.

And that was Cecil’s reputation.

After he was done, Cecil lounged beside him, discreetly glancing at the little clock by the bed as he stroked fingers lightly down Jake’s sweat-slick chest. “So,” he said, “how long are you in town for?’

Jake was still gasping, wide eyed and boneless, staring at the ceiling. “Uh,” he said finally, “M-Mr. Vanston has business in the area at least until the end of the week.”

“Mmmhmmm,” Cecil purred, combing his fingers through the thin blond chest hair. “And will we be seeing you again this week?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. It is a work trip you know. And I--well. I have a bit more work to do than Mr. Vanston does. He tends to come out here--more for-- uh.”

“Personal reasons?”

“Something like that.”

Cecil nodded with a bright little smile and tucked the information away for later teasing. Earl was a personal reason, he was willing to bet anything. He leaned over and breathed against his ear, “You have twenty minutes. Want to see what kind of trouble we can cause in twenty minutes?”

 

“Two nights in a row? You better be careful, Mr. Vanston, or you’re gonna spoil me.” Earl sat on the bed, leaning back comfortably. “And what game are we playing tonight?”

Marcus smiled, almost shy, and nerves flared hot in Earl’s stomach. They’d developed a level of trust in the time Marcus had been coming to the house, but what did that smile mean? Was it going to be a problem?

Earl did what he always did. He played it off.

“Do you want to tie me to the bed and tease me till I beg you to fuck me rough? Crawl across the floor to you on my hands and knees and suck you off?”

“Not tonight.”

“Oh?” Earl crossed his legs and leaned forward. “You want me to hit you with the belt again?”

Marcus shook his head. “Tie me to the chair,” he said, and he had the confidence back in his voice, “and kiss me.”

“Marcus.”

“Like you mean it.”

Earl said nothing for a minute. His heart beat heavy in his chest and his face was hot. “We’ve talked about this. We’re not--I can’t--there are lines. Okay? And they’re for both of us--”

“I’m not asking for anything--”

“--to protect both of us from all the things that can happen--”

“--that we haven’t done before.”

Earl blinked at him for a moment, searched his brain for something this intimate, this personal, passing between them, in the lazy, half-asleep, comfortable moments that passed after the work of the night was done.

“I’m not asking for commitment, or a confession, or anything like that. You don’t even have to mean it. Just--pretend. For a while.” A slightly tension crept into his voice as he added, “How is that possibly more vulnerable than--than all the other things we’ve done?”

Earl sighed, and then smiled sweetly. He’d never want to hurt Marcus (because Marcus was his steadiest client, of course, and certainly the wealthiest) and it would probably be okay. If there was one thing he’d learned, it was how to maintain a level of professional detachment. And he’d certainly learned it the hard way.

He pointed to the chair. “Go sit,” he said. “Arms behind your back.”

Earl was really good with knots. Most of his professional reputation was built out of his skill with ropes, and he always tried to give Marcus the best of it. He bound his wrists behind the chair, with enough rope between them to let his shoulders relax without giving him room to misbehave. He peeked at Marcus through his eyelashes as he knelt between his knees, binding his ankles to the legs of the chair. 

He climbed onto his lap, straddling his waist and raking his fingers through the slicked-back hair. Marcus buried his face in Earl’s shoulder, scraping teeth down his neck as far as he could reach. Earl tugged his hair, pulling his head back, and kissed him, rough and filthy. Hopefully, aggression would make an adequate substitute for passion. 

His mouth slipped open and he brushed his tongue against Marcus’ smooth lips, and they parted for him. He nipped and pulled at Marcus’ lower lip, and heard him moan deep in his throat. 

Earl rolled his hips slightly, teasing friction against Marcus’ restrained body, grinding against him in short, easy strokes as he slid his tongue past Marcus lips. 

He pulled back after a minute, placing hands on either side of Marcus’ face and tilting it towards the light. His mouth was open slightly, as though he hadn’t fully realized the kiss had broken, and his eyes were heavy, pupils wide. Beautiful.

Earl could have said something--something he wasn’t sure he meant, something he might later regret. Instead he ran his thumb over the parted lips and then kissed him again.

 

“I’ll be fine,” Kevin said brightly. 

He’d only been here forty-eight hours, and Josie was already sick of the argument. He was desperate to work almost as soon as he could stand.

“No one faints in my parlor,” she’d said. “You clear a plate for me, then we’ll talk about you being ready to work.”

She hadn’t expected him to actually do it, though.

It was clearly a struggle. A modest bowl of her thick stew took him about as much time as Cecil did wolfing down two bowls, and he’d made just a bit of a fuss at the large chunk of crusty bread she put on the side of the dish. 

But if there was one thing he was good about, it was following instructions; the bread was now in the dish, and therefore he had to eat it. He labored through the bowl, eating carrots and potatoes first, then spooning the thick gravy up in tiny bites, avoiding the meat, nibbling at the bread.

Earl leaned over and whispered something in Kevin’s ear.

He ate the bits of meat, looking a little green about the gills, as her mother would have said. After he finished she sent him up to his room to digest, and he looked very unhappy about it. 

“Earl, keep an ear out, make sure he keeps it down,” she’d said. “He’s too small, I don’t think he got that way natural.”

And now here he was, smiling that tight, tired little smile, swearing up and down he was fit to work.

She honestly didn’t believe him in the slightest, but she had to balance her ledger, and there was no way she could do that while he was standing at her shoulder, insisting he was capable of entertaining callers all night. Finally, she said, “You get one shot. If it doesn’t work out you’re back on bedrest.”

“I won’t let you down, Josie!” he chirped, and he sounded almost happy, but he didn’t look happy. Something in those wide, nervous eyes of his. Sometime like relief, and something else that could have been desperation.

“Go rest up,” she said, shooing him away with her hand and turning back to her ledger. 

She wasn’t charging him rent this month, but the other boys gave her quite enough to deal with. Earl had gleefully paid in full the morning after Mr. Vanston first got to town, and Cecil was about half settled. Carlos was almost set, although he only paid two thirds of what the others did; he was still finding his feet, and she wanted him to build a steady clientele and a reputation he was comfortable with. She’d seen plenty of boys and girls new to the profession who panicked, took work they couldn’t handle for fear of being turned out. And he was such a dear creature, she couldn’t bear the thought of anything corrupting his guilelessness, his sweetness. 

Of course Erika and Erika had to be paid, and the food and firewood, and she’d have to get some nice cloth to recover that chair by the window. 

They’d get by, she was sure of that. Lately the liquor was pulling in almost as much as the boys; the place had become fashionable for young and wealthy in town, and she was gonna wring as much out of them as she could before they moved on to the next diversion.

Earl knocked twice on the door of her little room. He, at least, knocked, and he was just about the only one who did. 

“You mind if I pay up next month early?” he asked, leaning his back against the wall, arms crossed.

“It’s hardly the middle of September.” She eyed Earl shrewdly. “Planning to take time off next month?”

“Planning on not having Marcus Vanston visit three nights in a week.” He lowered his voice. “And twice overnight.”

“Earl, everyone knows that rule is flexible, especially in these--particular kind of circumstances. You don’t have to whisper.”

Earl smiled humorlessly. “‘Particular circumstances’. Right.” He sighed. “Anyone ever try to wife you? While you were still working?”

“Once or twice. But I learned early to stay independent, you got no one to lean on but yourself.”

“I didn’t. Not in time, anyway.” Earl glanced around the room, casually avoiding eye contact. “But I know now.” He straightened and stretched. “So that’s gonna dry up soon. He can’t have something, so now he’ll convince himself he doesn’t want it.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Josie said, dipping her pen to get back to her work. “He may be willing to have it on your terms.” 

“My terms deliberately exclude what he wants. Or at least what he thinks he wants. What he’ll want for six months and then get tired of.”

“He can convince himself otherwise if he wants to.” _So can you, Earl Harlan_ , she did not say. “Dreaming is free in this house, if nothing else is.”

 

_Finally,_ Kevin thought, _finally I have a chance!_ He’d prove to that old woman that he was an asset, that he was worth the price of his upkeep. He had one thing on the others, at least--he was small, and small was desirable to a certain kind of client. Small and vulnerable looking. Yes. That was his advantage. 

He tried not to think about what that certain kind of client was like. It was the work that was important. His point of pride, before ( _before he was cast off, useless waste of space that he was_ ) he came here was an extraordinary tolerance. Sometimes all he had to do was just close his eyes, and he’d be somewhere else until it was over! And then it would come back to him in quieter, calmer moments, when he was alone and could make faces and cry a little bit. And that was just fine!

He sat at the vanity table, watched the blurry, colored shapes of his reflection move in the dim light of the gas lamps.

Tonight he was going to have to really push himself. Cecil was the favorite, he probably got the best work, the easiest work (and Kevin tried not to remember being the favorite once--it seemed like another lifetime, another self). Carlos was sweet and quiet and always with Cecil, so maybe some of the protective aura of House Diva extended to him him.

But what about the redhead? Earl must have really misbehaved once, if someone had been willing to damage his face. Maybe he’d withheld some of his earnings, or stolen food. He seemed to know all the rules about food.

Kevin had sat through that ghastly lunch, and she stared at him the whole time. He thought it was punishment, at first. Maybe he’d had too much at breakfast, and she wanted him to be sick so he’d learn his lesson. And then Earl had told him “You’re allowed to have all of it. Even the meat. It’s not a trap or a test.” He seemed trustworthy enough, and if anyone would know what was and wasn’t a test it would be the one who’d really crossed a line at some point.

He was feeling a little better; his head didn’t spin if he stood up too fast and his knees weren’t shaky when he walked. 

Someone opened the door, without knocking. Kevin turned and squinted.

“Cecil?” 

“Yeah,” Cecil said, and he sounded like he was smiling. “Someday you’ll get the names down.” He crossed the room in long, confident steps, and a large piece of fabric billowed in his hands. “I brought you a present. I never wear it anymore and I thought--” 

He paused, standing behind Kevin, and the air felt tense. _What did I do? Is he the kind of favorite who will get me in trouble over any slight?_

Kevin kept carefully still as a finger traced slowly down his back. “What happened here?” Cecil said, his voice suddenly a little too light. 

“What do you mean?” 

Fingers slid back up his back, to his shoulder, five points of contact he was very, very aware of (except in that one place, where the feeling hadn’t really come back yet).

Cecil was silent for a moment. Kevin could see him vaguely in the mirror--he was looking down, but at what? Probably Kevin’s shabby garments. He fidgeted under the glare.

“Well,” Cecil said, “I brought you something.” He laid the fabric across Kevin’s shoulders. It was soft, and bright, in a pattern he couldn’t quite make out. “I never wear it anymore and I thought you could use something nice.”

Kevin tried to shrug out of the thing. He didn’t want to be in Cecil’s debt too. “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly--” 

“Yes you can. Come on, slip your arms in. Looks sweet on you.” Cecil leaned forward and a blurred image of his face appeared beside Kevin’s in the mirror. “We have the same color eyes,” he said, and his voice was quiet and kind.

It was soft, and comfortable, and a little more coverage would be nice. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I’ll give it back to you tomorrow.”

“Oh no, you keep it.” Cecil stood, and some of the affection left his voice. “I told you, I never wear it, and I hate to see nice things go to waste. It’s yours now.”

 

There were obviously better experts on this profession than Carlos.

Earl had been around for a long time, had gently nudged Carlos away from trouble on several occasions. For a tall, handsome man, he made a lot of the same faces as Carlos’ short, round, gentle abuela, especially the “don’t make my mistakes, child” face. But Earl was leaning casually against a wall, smiling and negotiating prices with a new client who seemed deeply embarrassed by whatever he was asking for. 

Cecil didn’t seem to have Earl’s expansive knowledge, but he’d certainly been working for a long time. He has, possibly, been in this middle of nowhere town all his life, and he was smooth and confident and unashamed. Carlos had seen him blush exactly once, and it was when he himself had made eye contact for the first time. He was good at reading people and very good at altering his own body language to communicate what he wanted, and he could diffuse a potentially risky situation when it had barely begun. But he was lounging across a regular, a farmer from across town who liked to put on his Sunday best and be called “Mr. Peters” while getting the full attention of someone beautiful and elegant, and that was exactly what Cecil was doing.

Josie was behind the bar with Erika, talking in hushed tones, and he didn’t want to interrupt what looked like serious business.

So it was on him, then.

He observed the situation for another minute. He didn’t want to be hasty, after all, and rob Kevin of his first client.

He was in the middle of a cluster of three strangers, leaning carefully away, backed almost against a wall. He looked so small, by comparison, and Carlos thought for a moment of the village he remembered vaguely, of what he saw over his shoulder while his abuela held his hand, pulled him along. Kevin’s movements were jerky and uncoordinated, and he was shaking slightly as he ducked physical contact but smiling, smiling like he was delighted to be there, like he’d been waiting all his life for this moment.

It was a beautiful smile, and it was the saddest thing Carlos had ever seen. 

He was boxed in, looking discreetly for an exit. Why didn’t he just ask to leave? That, at least, was a rule everyone followed, because the consequences of ignoring a _no_ was Erika (Erika at the door, not Erika at the bar) aggressively helping you find the exit. Clients sometimes tried to bend the rules, but that one was sturdy and solid, an oak door locked and bolted against the chaos humans were capable of. 

And none of that would make any difference if Kevin didn’t say stop smiling, stop pretending he was okay.

Carlos cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and walked to the door. “Erika!” he hissed.

Erika turned and smiled down at him. They didn't seem to have many smiles in them, but they always seemed to save one for Carlos. 

“Listen,” he said, “Kevin said he was okay to work, did Josie tell you that?”

Erika nodded. They didn’t have many words to spare either.

“He is really not okay.”

Erika looked over Carlos’ head. Erika was six feet and change, gender-nebulous, built like an ox and intensely protective. 

“I’m not sure what to do,” Carlos went on, rubbing his thumb against the center of his palm. “No one’s broken any rules yet. I don’t even think they know he’s not okay.”

Erika was still looking over his head. He turned his head and saw one of the men lean close, towards Kevin’s neck. The other two dispersed, clearly having lost the competition. For just a moment--a fraction of a second, so brief Carlos almost doubted he saw it--Kevin’s face twisted, smile gone, eyes squeezed shut. He heaved one quick, silent sob, and then his face cleared again, he grinned, looked like he was laughing.

Carlos turned back to Erika. “He has no idea. Oh no. This isn’t good, this isn’t--what do I do, Erika, how do I--everyone else is busy--”

Erika tilted their head back towards the bar and said, “Try Josie.”

“Josie’s busy, what if it’s nothing and I interrupt her--”

“It’s not nothing.” Erika turned and leaned against the doorframe, watching the corner Kevin was in. “Go tell Josie.”

Permission granted, Carlos fretted across the room, suddenly aware of how many people were there, how many were looking at him hopefully, how different it all looked when he was worried like this. 

But it didn’t matter. This was important. 

“Josie,” he whispered, leaning against the bar. 

“Hang on a minute, I have my hands full,” Josie said, not looking up from whatever Erika was showing her. 

“Uh.” Carlos looked over his shoulder to make sure Kevin hadn’t taken the client to his room already. “So is this?”

“Wait a minute, I’m not an octopus.” She waved her hand like she was shooing away a fly.

“Josie, it’s really important.” 

Something in his tone must have finally gotten through to her, because she looked up, now, focused on him. “It better actually be important, boy-of-mine.”

“Kevin said he was okay to work and he is really not okay, and I’m worried he’s gonna try and take that client over there when he is really, really distressed--”

“Shush,” Josie waved her hand again and squinted at Kevin, half hidden behind the prospective client. He was staring through everyone else in the room, unfocused, immobile.

“Shit,” she whispered, and she swept around the bar and bustled over there, holding up her skirt so she could move faster. “Come on,” she said, “you’ve got to help me with this one.”

Nervously, rubbing his thumb against his hand again, Carlos followed.

“Excuse me, young man?” she asked, her voice uncharacteristically sweet. “What’s your name?” 

The prospective client pulled himself away from Kevin, brows knit in confusion. “Um.” He looked around the room. “Larry?”

“Larry? Oh, Larry Leroy, I know you,” Josie said pleasantly. “Look, honey, this boy has a prior engagement he forgot about--”

“Oh, no!” Kevin chirped, and when he turned toward Josie he was looking just a little too far left, like he wasn’t entirely sure where she was. “Remember, you said--”

“Forget what I said, mind what I’m saying now.” She turned to the young man with a pleasant little smile, and Carlos could see the charm that had probably been her livelihood in her youth. “Larry. My dear Larry.” She grabbed Carlos’ arm and pulled him in front of her. “This is Carlos. Carlos is an absolute peach, and just look at that beautiful hair. He’s a delight. Do you want to talk to him for a little while?”

“Lauren,” Kevin said, and his smile tightened just a little, his voice slightly strained, “I said I’m--”

Josie made a face and laid a hand on his arm. “Come on, sunshine, let’s go--”

But he was still, clearly startled, stuck in place when her fingers wrapped around his slender wrist.

“Hey,” Carlos said, with his brightest, sweetest smile. He ran the tips of his fingers down Larry’s arm. “Let’s go sit down, you and me. Have a little chat?”

Larry smiled, led the way across the room. He sat in the cozy chair by the fire and indicated that the best place for Carlos would be his lap. 

Carlos put his full attention into his work, and when he finally had a chance to glance back to the corner, Kevin was gone.


	3. Things Passed and Things Yet to Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I've been sitting on this chapter for a month. I'm sorry, I got distracted by robots. ONWARD.)
> 
> Warnings for sexual content, dirty talk, trauma stuff, many feelings.

That little idiot was back on bedrest, that was for damn sure. Solid food, clearing his plates, and he was going to talk to someone, goddamn it.

Who he was going to talk to, well, Josie hadn’t quite worked that out yet. To start with, he’d have to settle for her. 

It had been a struggle to get him into bed; at first he’d followed quietly, if somewhat sullen, but had gotten kind of hysterical by the time they reached his room. She blessed Cecil’s loudness under her breath to cover the weak wailing sounds Kevin was making.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry _I’m so sorry--!_ ” His voice rose and dropped dramatically as she half dragged him towards the door. “I won’t do it again, whatever it is, I won’t do it again, just tell me what it is and let me try again--”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, child, you’re not fit to be in my parlor. Now stop it.”

That got her somewhere at least--he stopped pulling, let her guide him onto the bed. He’d stopped crying, too, his face blank, his eyes distant.

This seemed as good a time to talk as any.

“Where do you think you are?” she asked, trying to keep her voice neutral. 

“At the House,” he said, and his voice was tight, capital letters audible in his speech, “in one of the Nice Rooms.”

“The nice rooms?”

“--are for work only.” His voice broke just a little. “Please, Lauren, at least tell me what it is?”

“I told you, you done nothing wrong, you’re just not ready to be downstairs yet.”

“Just tell me what I have to do. Please, tell me--I don’t want to just--find out--”

“What you have to do is wrap yourself up in this sheet, and get under this quilt, and go the hell to sleep. And don’t you stir from this bed until one of us comes to get you. You hear me?”

“Yes.” Utter defeat. 

She wrapped him tight in the light cotton sheet and laid him down on the bed, then spread the quilt over him. 

She left the door slightly open, grumbling as she went. There wasn’t any time to wonder what had gotten him so upset, or who Lauren was, or what all this Nice Room business was about. For now she had to make sure Carlos was getting on with the client she’d rescued Kevin from, finish dealing with Erika’s liquor-related concerns--

“Quite a ruckus in there, huh Josie?” Earl was leaning against the hallway wall with his hands in his pockets. His shirt hung open. “What’s the matter with him?”

“He isn’t ready to work,” Josie said grimly. “Aren’t you supposed to be entertaining a caller?”

Earl shrugged. “He wanted me to tie him up and make him wait, so I while I had time I figured I might as well pop out and see what the noise was about.” He jerked his thumb at Cecil’s shut door, behind which the _squeak-thump_ of the bed was almost drowned out by the moans and howls. “Aside from that noise I mean.”

“Well now you know, so go mind your own business somewhere else.”

“Yes ma’am.” 

She turned to stomp down the stairs.

“Josie?”

She turned back and grumbled. “Yes dear?” she said, sarcastically sweet.

“If you need any help with him, let me know.”

 

It was difficult to say how long Kevin was asleep before he was, suddenly, very awake.

There was a hand on his shoulder. He inhaled deeply. Time for that, then. He could only sense one presence in the room, one body sitting on the side of the bed, dipping the mattress slightly.

“Come on,” a voice said, quietly, “sit up a minute.”

Kevin sat, still tangled in the sheet, afraid to open his eyes. He pulled his arms out and tried to drift off somewhere safe.

“Hey,” the voice said, “hey, open your eyes. Can you hear me?”

Kevin opened his eyes, blinked wearily. Maybe they’d let him retreat after it started, whatever it was. 

He squinted at the white thing in front of him--a cup? 

“Hold that.”

Now he placed the voice. Earl. He wondered if Earl would be doing this horrible thing with him. Did Carlos ever get pulled for the horrible things? Cecil probably didn’t. He took the cup, dimly aware that was very hot. 

Earl pulled out a flask and poured generously into the mug. The smell of whiskey was sharp and familiar. 

“It’s good stuff,” Earl said, “and it should help you get through the night.”

Oh. So that was it. Kevin drank deeply from the mug, burning his mouth on the hot tea. If someone thought he’d need whiskey for whatever was coming next, he was willing to take it seriously. Especially since it was Earl taking the risk to get it to him. He coughed slightly as the alcohol stung the back of his throat.

“Slow down there, kid,” Earl said, pulling the mug gently from his hands. “You gotta sip it or you’ll be sick. Can’t just slam it on an empty stomach.”

Kevin blinked up at Earl, his slightly crooked nose and crooked smile. “Are you gonna stay?”

“Can’t stay all night, I gotta make some money,” Earl said, “but I can stay for a little while. Until you finish your tea at least.”

Kevin dropped his voice, looked towards the door. She might be listening. He might not be allowed to know. “Do you know, uh. What it is?”

“What what is?” Earl sounded distracted, adjusting his seat on the bed so he could lean against the headboard. 

“What I have to do?” 

Earl looked at him now, undistracted, face inscrutable. “What you have to do.” 

“You know. Later. You snuck me whiskey and I was told to sleep in a good room, so I know something is coming. But is it gonna be real bad? And will it--” he looked around, held his breath for a second to steady his voice. “Do you think it will cover that lunch I had to eat?”

Earl’s face was oddly blank.

“Sorry--sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. Forget I said anything!” Here he was, causing trouble for someone who’d risked bringing him the comfort of a sedative, who’d already done more for him than he could possibly repay. 

Earl swallowed hard, looked away, handed Kevin his mug. “How long have you been working?” he asked calmly.

Oh god.

Was it that bad?

“A few years?” Earl made a face, and Kevin didn’t like that. He put on his best and brightest professional smile. “I’m sure I can handle whatever it is. I’ve actually got a very high tolerance!” Maybe Earl would tell the others, then they wouldn’t think he was so useless.

“What do you think is about to happen?” Earl’s voice was still very even, but there was a hint of something underneath. Anger?

Maybe that was the wrong answer, maybe that made him a threat. Kevin clutched the mug in both hands, took a drink to hide his distress. 

“Kevin?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he whispered.

“I want you to just tell me, honestly, what you think is going to happen.” But Earl wasn’t looking at him anymore, he was looking towards the window, and Kevin could sense the tension in his body, like he was ready to hit something, and Kevin didn’t want that something to be him.

He followed the instructions he was given.

“Something unpleasant. The kind of thing someone negotiates with the boss because no one will say yes if they ask directly. And I’m the newest, and she doesn’t like me, so it falls on me. I thought you were here because you had to do it too but it was just the whiskey, and I’m sorry, I know what a risk it is bringing it up here but if you knew it’d be so bad I should be a little drunk I thought you might know what--”

“No.” Earl shook his head, still looking away. He opened the flask and drank straight, grimacing as he swallowed. “What happens next is, you finish your whiskey tea, and it sedates you a little, enough so you fall asleep easy and don’t think too much or have too many dreams. And then you bundle up under this quilt, and you sleep, and in the morning we start feeding you up, making you stronger. And then, after that.” Earl clenched his hands quick, then unclenched them again. “After that you never, ever accept work you haven’t negotiated yourself. Here or anywhere else.”

 

Cecil’s bedroom was a well-crafted nest. The bed against the far wall was the immediate focal point, a sea of soft fabrics and quilts and pillows. A cedar trunk he’d covered in cushions to make a long, low sofa against the wall.

And currently, in the center of that nest, was Cecil.

“Hey Ceec?” Carlos asked, “I overslept, missed breakfast. Wanna pool our stashed treats and have--”

One long, tan arm emerged from the pile of fabric and beckoned Carlos closer.

“What’s the matter?” Carlos crossed the room in short, quiet steps and slipped into bed without asking. Cecil immediately turned and scooted into the curve of his body. Carlos pressed his lips against the back of his neck, just gently, then on his shoulder. And then he waited.

“I have a sister, did I ever tell you?” Cecil said finally. His voice was flat and tired. “She writes me letters occasionally. Always short. Last one was to tell me she and her husband were moving out to Pine Cliffs.”

Carlos nodded against Cecil’s shoulder. “So she wrote again?”

Cecil wriggled his body closer to Carlos’, until they were completely flush against each other. “She’s got a child coming.”

They were still and quiet for a moment. Carlos felt the rise and fall of Cecil’s chest under his arms, heard his slightly ragged breathing. Cecil did not cry; this was as close as he would get to it.

“She didn’t say anything about letting me see the child, when it comes. Or seeing me again at all, ever. We grew up here, did you know that? Little shack way out on the edge of town. Mama was frail, presumably we had a father, god knows where, and Abby did most of the work of raising me. Abby. That’s her name.”

He rolled over to face Carlos, touching their foreheads together gently. “She hates the work I do. ‘What would mother say, if she could see you now? We raised you better-- _I_ raised you better.’ But she was able to marry out of it. She’s a Carlsberg now, a very proper lady. What was I supposed to do? How was I supposed to get out of it?”

Carlos nodded; he wasn’t sure what, if anything, he ought to say. Instead he brushed strands of soft hair off of Cecil’s forehead, letting his fingers trail over the high cheekbone and down to his chin. 

“We were never, like, really close. I think she resented it--resented being responsible for me. Even before mama died, she had to do a lot. We had a brother too, he didn’t live very long and I don’t even remember him. He was probably frail like mama.”

Carlos reached between them, held both of Cecil’s hands in his.

“And maybe I resent her a little bit too,” he said. “I don’t feel ashamed of what I do, and if I ever did, the time has long since passed. So she gets out, gets away with him, with that insipid Carlsberg, and then turns around and passes judgement on what I had to do? What else was I supposed to do?”

Carlos ran his thumbs slowly back and forth across Cecil’s knuckles. 

“Leonard was kind, and he was respectful, and he was _here_.” His voice dropped low and he cast his eyes down, towards the hands stroking his. “I haven’t seen her in five years and she is still the only person who can make me feel like a whore.” 

Carlos leaned close and kissed one of his almost-shut eyes, then rested his head against Cecil’s again. There were no words he could offer; everything he thought sounded cheap and cliche. He wondered for a moment if he should tell Cecil about his family. 

But, no. Now wasn’t the time, and Cecil’s eyes were drifting closed. He probably hadn’t slept the night before.

They slid in and out of an uneasy doze until early afternoon.

 

Earl was still catching his breath, and Marcus was lust-drunk and gasping beside him. They lay on the bed, panting wordlessly, and Marcus looked like the cat that got the cream. 

After a moment Earl rolled out of bed, poured water into a cup from a plain steel pitcher into a glass (one of the nice dark green ones from the bar, because Marcus was used to nicer things than the chipped mug Earl himself used), and sipped from it. 

“Here,” he said, passing the glass across the bed. Marcus pulled himself up and sat on the edge of the bed, accepting the glass and drinking deeply. “Holy fuck,” he whispered, raking his fingers through his sweaty hair. “That was...oh my god.” 

Earl slipped himself into his robe, giving Marcus another moment to breathe, forming his plan. 

Marcus took another large swallow from the glass and set it on the bedside table, and Earl saw his opening. He stretched out across the bed, letting the robe fall open slightly. “Marcus?” he said, trying for Cecil’s long, luxurious drawl. “Can I ask a favor?”

Fortune was on his side; he hadn’t yet asked Marcus for anything, despite repeated invitations, offers and gifts. 

Marcus rolled over beside him, running nippy little kisses across Earl’s freckled shoulder. “You want a favor? Fine, you fuck me like that, I’ll do anything for you.” 

Earl smiled. “Would you--”

“We’ll go up to Pine Cliffs, that sounds good? See a show, have dinner--I’ll take you somewhere you can get a real steak--get a nice room, wine--”

“Pssht, stop,” Earl said, pushing him away playfully. “That’s not what I was gonna ask for. It’s a favor for a friend.” 

“Oh yeah?” Marcus said, muffled slightly since his teeth were gently scraping and pulling at Earl’s neck.

“Yeah. One of the other boys here. Would you hire him for a night?”

Marcus paused, then pulled back, studying Earl’s face. He smiled, but not happily. “What, you can’t wait until I leave town for a night off?”

Earl’s stomach tightened. That was jealousy. Jealousy was dangerous. Had they already reached that point? If Marcus couldn’t have him for a lover, did he already see him as a possession?

Earl pressed onward. This was important. He could worry about himself later.

“It’s not that. I just. I don’t think he’s ever actually had a decent client. Someone who let him set limits, or talked to him, or--or cared at all about his safety or health or--anything. Just give him a couple hours.”

Marcus was still staring at him, his face only slightly relaxed. “So you want me to teach your friend how to be a responsible, professional prostitute.”

“Well it’s not entirely up to you,” Earl said, “just give him one good experience. One example of a safe job.” Now he made eye contact, smiled lazily. “I would be very, very grateful.”

Marcus’ face relaxed a little more. “And how grateful is that?”

“How grateful do you want it to be?” He rolled onto his side. “I could tell you how much I appreciate it. Oh, Mr. Vanston, thank you,--” he punctuated this with a kiss on the front of Marcus’ throat, “--thank you--” now in the little hollow between his collarbones, sliding down the bed, “--thank you.” He finished with his mouth in the center of Marcus’ chest.

“But I’m not sure words are sufficient to illustrate my gratitude,” Earl said, looking up through his eyelashes. He considered, for just a second, kissing his lips, hard, passionate, but that seemed wrong somehow, or at least more wrong now than it would have been otherwise. 

Instead his smile turned wicked. “Maybe I’d be so overcome I would fall to my knees before you, kiss and lick and suck, let you fuck my throat how you like? Is that the kind of gratitude you want? Or maybe bound to the bed, legs pushed back, begging for your cock, begging you to take me however you want me?” He slid down farther, brushing his lips against the sensitive expanse between the navel and the dark, thick curls. “Oh, please, Mr. Vanston,” he breathed, wetting his lips and kissing again, “Please, let me show you just how grateful I am.”

 

Cecil had never been so productive in his life.

The evening started off beautifully; he spent about five minutes spread over the sofa, lazily smoking a cigarette and doing his best bedroom eyes before he was approached by an older gentleman looking for a quick blow in the coat closet, and the night only carried on from there.

The longest he sat in the parlor unoccupied was half an hour. There was one man who flirted for two hours at the bar, buying drinks and making eyes, then abruptly paid for the time and left. Cecil wasn’t sure what that was all about, but he wasn’t going to question it. He was difficult to describe, and when he dropped his name Cecil couldn’t hear him over the noise of the parlor. He didn’t hear most of what he said, actually, but apparently he had smiled at the right times. Whoever he was, Cecil thought as he tucked away his earnings, he was welcome back anytime.

All the work was pretty pedestrian, and there was time to think. Maybe he’d use this money to buy some little trinket to send Abby. Maybe (he thought as he moaned loudly, bracing himself against the headboard) he’d tell her what he did to pay for it. Something nice, too, something too nice for her to just get rid of, something her frugal nature would compel her to keep.

He took up his position on the sofa again, squeezed Carlos’ hand as he passed, laughed to himself to imagine her absolute outrage, knowing that her brother, who she did not raise this way, sent her a gift he’d earned on his knees. Sure, it would put a dent in his savings, but that didn’t matter right now. Let her think he’d managed it in an hour, in a single act. Let her think he was doing very well for himself.

If she thought he was a whore, let her think he was the best whore in Night Vale.


	4. Creature Comforts

He wasn’t sneaking. Cecil had no reason to sneak; he was a grown man and his rent was paid for the month and that meant the rest of the money was his to do what he wanted with. It was just more convenient if no one saw him leave or asked where he was going with the box.

It would probably have been faster--not to mention cheaper--to just take a day and rent a coach to Pine Cliffs, drop the package off himself. But the surprise was better this way, the decadent gesture of sending something this fragile by mail, like it didn’t matter.

There was also a chance she wouldn’t let him through her door, especially if Steve Carlsberg was home to ask harmless questions she didn’t want the answers to. 

He’d almost cleared out his savings when he saw the tea set--good china, red blossoms painted in delicate strokes that looked very much like one of his favorite robes. It was second hand, but she didn’t have to know that. 

_My dear Abby,_ he wrote, _I hope this little gift of congratulations finds you well and befits a lady of your social standing. Please do think of me whenever you serve company. I am terribly excited to meet the baby when it arrives. Your loving brother, C._

It would take a few weeks of living spare to restore his savings, but he was feeling buoyant and extravagant; on the way back from the post he stopped at the sweet shop for a little packet of lemon drops.

He shut the door quietly and crept up the stairs, looking around to be sure he hadn’t been spotted. At this point it would be harder to explain the sneaking than the errand, but he was committed to it. He slipped into Carlos’ room and snuck into bed beside him.

Carlos had this sleepy stretch he did, when he was woken up while sleeping on his side, where he pushed down and away with his hands and curled his chest forward, like a kitten. He stretched now and blinked his dark, sleepy eyes. Even half asleep, he already had a dreamy little smile for Cecil.

“Hi,” he said, his voice raspy with sleep.

“Good morning.” Cecil raked fingers through Carlos’ messy hair and kissed him once, lightly. “Guess what I have?”

“Hmm?” Carlos suppressed a yawn, and was only half paying attention.

Cecil pulled the little waxed paper packet from his pocket and held it up, waiting for Carlos to blink, squint, and finally recognize it.

“Lemon drops? For me?”

“For _us_ ”, Cecil corrected with a giggle as he opened the little packet. He popped one of the sweeties into his mouth.

When Carlos reached for the packet, he pulled it away. Carlos reached farther, half-sitting, and Cecil moved his arm again.

“Ceec, come on,” Carlos laughed, leaning across Cecil but still not quite able to reach, and the warmth and weight of his body was so--so intimate, so comfortable, that Cecil couldn’t stop himself from kissing him.

There was this little surprised sound Carlos made in the back of his throat when he was kissed, or hugged from behind, or touched in any intimate way. And that little noise--a half-squeak, something that would have been “ooh!” if it was fully articulated--that was something Cecil was determined, every time he heard it, never to take for granted. 

He pushed the sweetie up to his lips with his tongue and brushed it against Carlos’ mouth. Carlos took it immediately and sat up, astride Cecil and triumphant. 

He smiled and celebrated his victory by leaning forward and kissing Cecil again.

 

_Hell is that boy up to?_

Josie’s curiosity was relatively benign; even if she were interested in controlling people generally, Cecil’s private life had, in the past, been a tumultuous affair, and she’d always left him to it. Earl and Kevin had stepped out of their own penny dreadfuls, and Carlos was a sweet child, not quite naive enough to not understand the things he hadn’t seen. There was no need for her to micromanage four grown men, as long as rent was paid on time and they didn’t break the good glasses. 

But he’d never seemed to think it was necessary to sneak around at the crack of dawn, carrying awkward boxes, and creep back home looking over his shoulder.

Whatever. She probably didn’t want to know. 

Once he was safely up the stairs, she came out of the hallway and finished what she’d emerged to do in the first place: fuss about the parlor, seeing what needed to be fixed, fluffing pillows and dusting the decorative items. Some of them were old, older than the boys even; some were trinkets she’d been given when she was working herself. Male or female, clients seemed averse to giving practical gifts, as though that highlighted the inherently economic nature of the relationship. Useless decadence seemed easier for them to stomach, and as a result Josie was up bright and early polishing little bronze statues and dusting the music box on the mantle.

They weren’t entirely useless though; she’d pawned her fair share of affection tokens on hard times, and those she’d kept until now added something to the place, a sense of class, of comfort.

Even in this quiet, dusty nowhere town, Josie liked the place to have a sense of class.

Cecil had seemed skeptical of her, when she bought the place; he’d only ever worked for Leonard, a man very set in his ways, who Cecil had apparently relied on as a force of stability in the face of chaos. But it had taken exactly six words (“here, help me hang this mirror”) to bring him around, and they’d spent the rest of the first year working out a feel for the parlor, rich fabrics and dark colors and new lampshades to create intimate shadows and dark corners.

She finished her rounds by winding an ornate brass clock, the focal point over the bar. She’d always liked it as a metaphor or something, a visual representation of the value of time, the speed with which it passes. That had been a gift too, from a client looking to keep her cooped up in a little flat somewhere. She’d graciously accepted the gift, graciously declined the offer.

The boys liked small and portable things, but she was pleased, as she looked around the room, to see evidence of her life’s work, proof that it had happened, that she had been good at it, and that she understood it well enough to run a place without running her employees into the ground.

She sighed lightly and gave the room a last glance-over. But there was no more time for that, now. 

Her bare feet were silent on the floor as she slipped out of the parlor to go make breakfast.

 

He shouldn’t have kept them. He couldn’t imagine letting them go.

All that was over now, his chance had passed. And anyway, from the way that woman talked, she’d probably be angry if she found them, found evidence of what he’d had to leave behind.

The letter he’d folded carefully and tucked into a gap in the floorboards under his bed. He didn’t take it out much; it hurt to read it, and now there was another strange feeling that came with the hurt, something he couldn’t really identify and didn’t like at all.

But he kept it.

Kevin shut his door silently, snuck across the floor in little leaps. He’d already figured out where the floorboards creaked, how to make as little sound as possible. He hadn’t needed this knowledge yet, but learning things like that was second nature. At some point he may really need to sneak away. 

He opened the drawer of the bedside table. It still looked empty, the single item it held hidden away, tucked into the corner of the drawer. They insisted that this was his room, had seemed confused when he asked where the bunks were.

“You can set it up however you like,” Carlos had said. “We’ll help you if you want to rearrange the furniture. As long as you don’t, like, damage the floors or anything, I don’t think Josie would like that. But there are plenty of places to put your things.”

What things?

But he’d found places for things, what few he had.

He reached inside the drawer and pulled a bit of waxed paper from the top. It was so old now that the black cat on the label had nearly worn off, but if he opened it and breathed deeply he could still smell a faint ghost of licorice.

There wasn’t anything wrong with keeping these things, of feeling the faint stabbing memory of what it felt like to be loved, to be someone’s little ray of sunshine. They wouldn’t understand, though. They would probably be angry. And he could bear to lose one, but not both, so he hid them far apart in case one was found.

And there was the new thing as well. He pressed the paper back into the corner of the drawer and closed it slowly, trying to keep quiet. Then he pulled up the corner of the mattress and took out the robe.

It was a little wrinkled now, from its hiding place, but Kevin didn’t care. It was smooth--maybe even real silk!--and he had squinted carefully at the pattern of flowers, traced them with his fingers. He pulled his knees to his chest and held the folded cloth close, feeling the smoothness brush his cheek. 

He was worried about it. Cecil might get angry and take it back, or the whole thing might have been a trick so he could tell everyone Kevin was a thief. Or that woman might take it to sell, to make up for housing and feeding him when he couldn’t work. It was better if no one saw it, if he kept it safe. 

He rocked slightly where he sat, ignoring the pain of sitting on the hardwood floor, letting the silky fabric rub against his face. 

 

Earl was not a sentimental person.

He had one thing from his father, because it was useful. Because there was no need to spend the money on a new switchknife when he could just resharpen what he had. He did not think of it as _my father’s knife_. He did not think of his father much at all, when he could help it.

He had nothing of his mother’s but the freckles. 

He sharpened the knife without sparing them more than half a thought.

He wasn’t angry with them anymore. There wasn’t room for anything but apathy at this point, no emotions to spare. It was so long ago it may as well have happened to someone else. 

He closed it, flicked it open again, made sure the mechanism was still smooth. He hadn’t needed it in years, and had never had a problem with getting it open. But he liked to know for sure. Certainty was comfortable.

Carefully, he wrapped the sharpening stone and replaced it, then pulled out the strop. There was a muted clanking from the little bag of expensive nonsense beside it.

He’d started accepting Marcus’ gifts because he saw instantly what they were worth. The offhand way in which they were given (“Oh. Uh, here. Thought you’d like that.”) had made it easier. He kept most of them hidden away in case of emergency.

There was the lapel pin, though, that he always found a place for. There was no sentiment in it; it’s not like it was the first trinket, shoved awkwardly into his hands, or had accompanied the first hints of affection or offer of commitment. It wasn’t monogrammed, or studded with jewels; it wasn’t even meant to be particularly personal.

It was warm rose gold, shaped like a bird in flight. Chosen to compliment his fair skin, the freckles he got from his mother. He wasn’t especially interested in metaphor, but Marcus was onto something when he’d said Earl was always ready to fly away. 

If he fell on hard enough times, it would probably be the last thing he sold.

 

Soon, it would be breakfast.

Carlos tried to motivate himself up and out of bed. Food should be reason enough, although he wasn’t especially excited about another bowl of oats with honey. Not when there was a warm bed full of a warm Cecil, and lemon drops and cozy kisses.

Carlos wasn’t entirely ignorant. He’d been lucky, he knew, traveling up the coast, taking work here and there for a ride or a meal, lucky not to have been strangled and left in a ditch somewhere. He’d been lucky his old abuela had looked after him for so long, that he hadn’t had to face his parent’s rejection so young. He was most likely luckier than the rest of the household put together.

Things had been rough at times, but overall, he should embrace his good fortune, push aside the hardships he’d experienced and enjoy what he had: a place to sleep, steady meals, people who looked out for him, made sure he was safe and as in control of his work as was possible. And Cecil, of course, snoring gently beside him, hair spread across his pillow.

Sometimes it was hard not to remember. Even if it wasn’t especially bad--comparatively, it was nothing--he didn’t want to think about the look on his mother’s face when she figured out her son wouldn’t be finding a nice girl to marry, the tone of her voice when she said she wished he had died before she could find out what he was.

So he tried, as much as he could, to think of himself as lucky. He was lucky that he found a sort of family here in this strange desert town, had someone like Cecil to crawl into his bed early in the morning, lived the kind of life where he knew more or less where his next meal was coming from.

“C’mon, Ceec.” He nudged his bedmate gently. “Don’t want to be late to breakfast.”


End file.
